


ribs

by orphan_account



Series: white teeth teens / what's a soulmate ? [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Divergence, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Schmoop, Soul Markings, Soulmates, and the malfoys won't allow draco to draw on his skin, bc they still do blood marriages, canon au where when your soulmate draws or writes on themselves, even though wizards exist, he's still alone in the fckin world oops !, it shows up on your skin, lucius doesn't have a soulmate and narcissa's still writes on their skin every day, so harry's wondering why his skin is always blank
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-11-08 11:58:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17980898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: harry potter does not have a soulmate. even in this winding world of wizardry and whirring, whimsical widgets—he is the boy who lived to be well and truly alone.draco malfoy doesn't need a soulmate. after all, when his mother caresses the words tenderly etched on her wrists, they never show up on his father's varicose veins. he is the malfoy heir and he will marry for his blood—that's why since the day he was born, he was forbidden from so much as sketching on his skin.but, when flowers bloom on a pale oasis of flesh, he cannot help but trace the stalks with forbidden fingertips.





	1. prelude 1 / the boy who lived to die alone .

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> but that will never be enough .

At the tender age of eleven, a boy named Harry Potter came to the conclusion that he was luckless and loveless—devoid of a soulmate in a world where soul markings were as natural as the grass was green. 

At first he thought it was some fluke, that maybe he simply lacked the strength to present soul markings given how regularly the Dursley’s had withheld the most basal necessities from him, such as proper meals or adequate clothing. He had always been a sickly boy, what with the little amount of sun he got on a daily basis, if any, as well as the scraps he was given that Petunia and Vernon dare called sustenance. 

Even when he was in denial, though, a nagging voice in the back of his well-meaning-mind would always remind him: even Dudley, bully of a brute that he was, had squiggling lines of all shapes and colors traversing across his rather wide wrists at almost every hour of the day, transforming and shifting as his soulmate drew smiling faces and curling cats across their forearms, sometimes their palms. 

See, the way soul markings worked was: you and your soulmate were connected by the ink staining your skin. When felt-tip pens or kindergarten markers scribbled across soft skin, the sketches or scrawled words reflected instead on the flesh of your other half. It was what kept Harry going, most days, wondering where his stick-men and littered lillies went off to when they simmered and slid from his frail, too-small hands.

But he also was left wondering, where were his soulmate’s stick-men? Where were their lillies and cats and clouds and scribbled out words across ruddy knuckles, why was it that even in this, Harry was so alone? It must be the age, some doctors said, he is a frail boy, he’ll have a growth spurt and muscle up and I’m sure the marks will begin to appear.

They never did.

Petunia and Vernon stopped bothering with specialists, after all, the boy was a waste of space as it is; he was simply cursed, much like his starry-eyed, freakshow parents.

When Harry cried himself to sleep at night, he watched the doves dissolve from his bruised wrists.

July thirty-first, nineteen ninety one, Harry found out that he was a wizard, that his parents had been heroes in their world and that he was, too. He was the boy who lived! How could the boy who lived not have a soulmate, right? Yet as the days climbed by, and as he adjusted to Hogwart’s halls, headless ghosts, hexes and all; not a single drop of ink stained the chosen one’s skin. 

It was a pitiable existence, once again, to be Harry Potter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't repost this fic onto any other platform—screenshots of my fic uploaded onto intsagram included. speaking of, you can find my editing account @pansmiones on instagram ! 
> 
> comments && kudos are sincerely appreciated, as are questions && critique.


	2. prelude 2  / the malfoy moniker is a proud name .

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> even though we're smiling through our tears

The Malfoys were a proud family of opulent, affluent heritage and were well-known for being upstanding members of wizarding society—that’s the spiel Lucius Malfoy fed his heir, one Draco Malfoy, like syrup on a silver spoon. In a world where morals were loose and magical blood was dirtier than gutter water, it was his most solemn and humble obligation to fulfil his brood’s bloodline despite societal pressures and frivolous trivialities. 

Quite frankly, Aunt Andromeda was the only reason Draco had found out what a soulmate even was. He was ten, and he finally knew why he was only allowed quills when he was engaged in his schoolwork, or either Malfoy progenitor was in close proximity. 

They refused to let him mark his skin.

Upon finding out, Lucius was furious, Narcissa was heartbroken, and Draco finally understood what it meant when his mother traced the gentle cursive on her palms with forlorn glances toward the front door. His mother didn’t love his father. His father didn’t love his mother. Their marriage was in the name of blood purity, Draco’s existence was in the name of blood purity, everything was in the name of buggering bloody purity and Draco thought he might avada kedavra himself before he was even enrolled in Hogwarts.

...There was one thing that kept him from ending it all, though. See, even though he hadn’t known what a soulmate was up until that fateful encounter with his aunt, he’d seen glimpses of sunflowers and snakes on his forearms, doodles, and whatnots that had no reason whatsoever to smear an alabaster canvas as if they belonged exactly where they were. But now? Now he got it, he really got it and he knew what it meant. It meant that he had a soulmate.

A soulmate, of course, whom he could never love or touch or let alone even see, especially if his parents found out who they were or that Draco...that Draco was in love with them. 

It sounded stupid, even echoing back and forth within the walls of his mind, that he was in love with this nameless, faceless, bloodless person that existed only in the pen-marks that made his hands itch and his heart ache. But that was all that they needed to do; their simple existence gave Draco hope even if he knew that they were so far out of his reach it was laughable.

But, still.

It meant that he wasn’t unlovable.

His weakness was an open wound, ugly and raw and gaping and infected, infected with the thought of validation and appreciation, unconditional love for who he was no matter his blood status or his wealth. Draco craved for his existence in the world to be validated, simple as that, when his father only cared for him as a means to an end, and his miserable mother, despite what she called her love for him, saw him as the double-doors to the Malfoy manor—the only thing left between her and the outside world. It was when Draco thought on these things, too wise in his years even as a ten-year-old boy, that he smiled down at scrawled hearts and let the hopelessness of his soul seep out and into the surrounding air. 

He was only ever at peace in his bed, with his hands clasped close to his chest and these words lingering on his breath, “I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't repost this fic onto any other platform—screenshots of my fic uploaded onto intsagram included. speaking of, you can find my editing account @pansmiones on instagram ! 
> 
> comments && kudos are sincerely appreciated, as are questions && critique. 
> 
> next chapter, the development tm will really begin >:^)


	3. diagon alley || year I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _and i'll never go home again_

The streets of Diagon Alley were chaotic; littered with discarded shopping lists, wrappings of magical trinkets from Gambol and Japes, and sweet wrappers from scuttling wizards and witches alike scraping together their school supplies at the last moment—the shops were bustling and Harry didn’t think he’d ever felt more alive in his life. “Hagrid...this is amazing! Is it all really true? I mean, I don’t think you’re a liar, sir, it’s just… so hard to believe!” Harry chatted excitedly, a toothy grin stretching across chubby cheeks. It had only been hours since he was separated from the Dursleys, and dusty roses were already pinking young skin. The chosen one looked positively exuberant, eyes gleaming with curiosity; the specs that sat on his nose glinted with a hunger for knowledge. This was something that Hagrid had picked up on; Harry was a hungry boy. He wasn’t just starving in a literal sense, though that was unfortunate, too, he was starving for something more. The things that could not fill anyone’s belly, but could appease a sorrowing soul, mend a broken heart, and fulfill a young, zealous mind. These ideas were love, friendship, wisdom, and the mere sense of belonging somewhere out there in the world. 

It would seem that Harry had never felt at home with the muggles that dared call themselves his guardians, that he had never felt like he had somewhere to call “home” to begin with. After all, what was a home with no family? It was as Vernon so viciously reminded the hero of the wizarding world, “You are not our son, and you are lucky we haven’t kicked you out into the streets by now.”

Hagrid shook his mane of coarse, unwashed hair as if to shake the thought from his rather-large head. He looked down at Harry with a kind smile, all yellow teeth, and gentle eyes. “O’ course it’s real, ‘arry! Dinnae anyone ever tell ye tha’ seein’ is believin’? Silly boy. C’mon, it’s time tae find ye yer robes—hold on, Ah’ve got to run an er....quick errand if ye wouldnae mind? Here, take these. Just ask fer Madam Malkin, right n’ tha’ shop, she’ll measure ye right up,” Hagrid rambled, abruptly changing the subject as an idea flickered like a flashlight in the back of his mind. He pointed the storefront out, garish violet standing out against all the other surrounding stores. Harry, though a bit overwhelmed by Hagrid’s quick manner of speech, nodded in understanding. He held out his hand as the burly man delicately dropped a sack of Galleons into an upright palm. “Tha’ right there should be more n’ enough tae pay fer yer school robes. When yer done, jus’ wait outside by the door fer me, alright? An’ if ye run intae any trouble, stay put. Ah’ll be back in a jiffy.”

With that, the half-giant lumbered away into the crowd; Harry watched in amusement as the crowd of wizarding folks parted like the red sea for the towering man that was Rubeus Hagrid. A few waved politely, clearly knowing Hagrid personally, but the remainder of the crowd simply looked intimidated or terrified. If only they knew what a soft soul he possessed. As he melted back into the crowd, the streets were bustling once again, and Harry was swept up into a sea of folks of all shapes and sizes. It was phenomenal, really, and he was downright starstruck! But, he realized, as he stared at the tightly packed bodies in front of him, he was quite lost. 

Of course, it was just his luck. Hagrid had only asked one thing of him, and he had already right mucked it up. How was he supposed to find Madam Malkin’s in this horde, let alone find his way back to Hagrid? What a nightmare. Soon enough, the lenses of his glasses began to fog up as his breathing became more frantic and tears began to blur his vision. Even now, he was useless, pathetic Potter so strange and stupid just like his parents, just like Dudley said. Why did he ever think things would get better? Why was he so naive—

Abruptly, a nasal voice cut through all of the harsh white noise and even sliced through Harry’s own loud, storming thoughts. “Make way, you insufferable oafs. I said, let us through!” The words were commanding, authoritative, and almost immediately the crowd dispersed in a huff. Was it...really that easy? As Harry clung to his state-of-mind, he noted how open the streets were, and he wondered how it had ever gotten so congested in the first place. Had they maybe known who he was? No, that wasn’t it, the only people who knew he was back were the stragglers from the Leaky Cauldron and he doubted that news traveled that fast. Besides that, he was in an...embarrassing state, compared to the passersby even now, his scar hidden by unruly black hair and the dirt smudged on his face. He imagined the wizarding world thought that their savior would be dressed grandly, in expensive robes and fancy dress shoes, maybe even wearing a ring on his hand…

...they probably thought that Harry would look like _him_. There, right in front of him, with his hand stretched out haughtily, was a boy who looked every bit as royal as he sounded. Who looked every bit as much of a hero as Harry thought he himself should look, and honestly, _hero_ wasn’t exactly the wrong title given that this regal blond boy was the individual whom that posh, high-and-mighty voice belonged to. He was the one that had saved him from the mob. Standing as tall as an eleven-year-old could, the boy grew sick of waiting for Harry’s response and simply grabbed him by the hand. “A simple “ _thank you_ ” would suffice, you know,” the boy scoffed superciliously. Regaining his composure to the best of his ability, Harry nodded his head and shook the boy's hand.

“Sorry, I was...I was distracted. Thank you for your help back there, that crowd was bonkers. I got, well, I got scared and froze up,” Harry said sheepishly, hand coming up to scratch at the back of his neck. The boy looked at him quizzically, nose scrunched up as if to say, “pish, posh”. 

“That’s that, then. They’ve been dealt with—commoners, the lot of them, flocking together like dirty mongrels. _It’s pathetic!_ And, for what? I bet they were all rushing off to Fortescue’s before he closes up shop. _Rubbish_. But did you see the way they divided when I arrived? Seems the little sheep know their place after all. Of course, a good wizard knows a Malfoy when he sees one, eh?” the blond prattled off, looking down at Harry’s rather blank expression every so often as if to gauge his reactions. Before Harry could respond, the boy finally let go of his hand. It was only then that Harry realized they’d begun walking in the direction of Madam Malkin’s throughout the boy’s monologue, still hand in hand since he had pulled Harry from the crowd. “Well, never mind that of course. I’m Draco, by the way, though I’m sure you can tell who I am. You’re headed in my direction, yes?” Draco presumed, keeping up his confident stride. A strangely fixated smile found its way onto Harry’s lips; Draco almost reminded him of Dudley. A much more attractive, well put-together Dudley, of course...and notably more intelligent, too. Not to mention the way that he carried himself; the confidence he emanated bordered on arrogance, just barely toeing the line between high self-esteem and cocksuredness. 

Okay, so maybe nothing like Dudley at all. Even his mannerisms were finely-polished up against _Dudders’_ appalling etiquette. “Yes, actually, I am. I need to get my school robes. It’s going to be my first year at Hogwarts,” Harry replied, perhaps a bit eagerly, pleased when glinting silver eyes gazed into emerald orbs with intrigue.

“Really? I thought so, but you look sort of young so I wasn’t sure. It’ll be my first year, too! You’re lucky, you know, attending the same year as a Malfoy,” Draco started in, throwing Harry a wink as he waltzed into the Robery like he owned the damn place, “if you get sorted Slytherin next to me, in fact, you’ll be pretty much set.” Harry nodded as he followed Draco through the foyer as if everything the Malfoy has said makes complete sense to him. Draco smirked at this, looking smug, and somehow it felt like he had the right to be. Harry was confused by this. “I like you. You catch on quickly, yeah? What’s your name?”

Once again, Harry is interrupted before he can so much as open his mouth. A rather elegant, but grumpy looking old woman breezed into the hall. “Young master Draco, glad to see you made it. The Hogwarts traffic is especially horrid today, especially given how...inclined every wizard is to procrastinate until the very last moment, yes?” Draco nodded, disinterested, eyes not meeting hers but instead scanning the miles of robes stretching down and through the shop. “You’ve never been one for small talk, hm? That’s alright, you Malfoys always know exactly what it is that you want. Your robes are ready in the back, as requested by your mother of course. I’ll go ahead and retrieve them for you right away,” she glided over to Harry with a disdainful look in her eyes that Harry had grown used to by now, lips downturned in a frown. “You’ll have to wait, dearheart, while I deal with this important client. I’ll be with you momentarily,” she chittered nonchalantly, floating off towards the back room without a moment’s notice. 

Draco glared at her as she left, returning his attention to Harry immediately upon her departure. “She’s awful, isn’t she? Always trying to butter up me _and_ my parents. I know she doesn’t care for any of us, at all, but she’s so obsessed with the name and the bloodline...not that my parents are much better, mind you, but you would think she’d have some shame. She’s just like everyone else. Blood, blood, money, blood,” Draco began to mutter, his rant eventually growing silent as he rapidly realized his oversight and overshare. His porcelain features flushed bright red with embarrassment if embarrassment was an emotion the young master was capable of feeling, that is to say.

A pang of sympathy struck Harry out of nowhere; he most certainly wasn’t some wealthy heir nor an affluent successor, but he did understand the feeling of alienation that Draco was describing. After all, all the Dursleys cared for was blood, too, when he really thought about it. They hated Harry because he had tainted blood—tainted by his witch mother and his wizard father, but they took him in because _he was blood_ , and it tethered them even if they’d never dare to say it aloud. Cautiously, like approaching a starving animal, Harry rested his hand on Draco’s shoulder and gave him a tenderhearted beam. “For what it’s worth, I like you just for being you. Back there, you helped me without asking for a thing in return, without even knowing my name. It wasn’t hard but you still didn’t have to do it...so thank you, again. And, um…” he began to trail off, feeling the tiniest bit silly, “I really do hope I’m sorted into Slytherin with you.”

Caught off guard by the youth’s genuine, unadulterated warmth, Draco found himself with a soft smile melting off of his own lips like butter. Feeling the weight of Harry’s rough, but small hand on his person, he looked down at ruddy skin only to be met with the sight of pitch black ink smeared across pale, chapped knuckles. His breath caught in his throat; it had to have been a coincidence...there was absolutely no way in hell. He opened his mouth to speak, but all that slipped from silver-tongue was silence. “Is something the matter? Sorry if that was out of the blue, I didn’t mean to say anything weird…” Harry murmured dejectedly, but Draco briskly shook his head no. Still, he couldn’t find the words, and instead, his gaze drifted down to his own hand, stained with sticky ink from when he had knocked over an inkwell in Flourish && Blotts earlier that day. 

Draco made a move as if to say something, but was instead caught off guard as Harry snatched his hand back like he’d been burned. His pupils dilated in surprise; the noirette stared behind Draco like he’d seen a ghost...or worse, a dementor. Whirling around, Draco inhaled sharply as he beheld Harry’s precise reason for being so flummoxed. It was none other than his father, Lucius Malfoy, wearing a look so foul it could avada kedavra on sight. Draco pulled on the sleeves of his robes furtively, hiding his stained hands from sight. The soft look he had given Harry before went as rapidly as it had appeared, hardening to sharp, cold stone in just a matter of seconds. His steely gaze avoided Harry’s worried one, alternatively locking with Lucius’ sneering stare. “Hello, father.”

“Draco...I’ve been looking for you. A change of plans has been made, we will no longer be patronizing this...rather _quaint establishment_ —we shall be picking up your robes elsewhere,” Lucius drawled conceitedly, eyeing the foyer with scarcely hidden contempt, “your mother has made arrangements for your robes to be tailored at Twiflitt and Tatting’s...come along, now, boy, it’s getting late,” he continued. Reaching out with a leather-gloved hand, the Malfoy patriarch stopped short when Draco pulled back roughly. “...is there a problem, _my dearest son_?” Lucius hissed, tongue dripping venom and eyes glaring daggers.

“I...I’d like to say goodbye to my friend first, father. Besides, shouldn’t we at least let Madam Malkin know that we won’t be requiring her services anymore?” Draco practically whispered; though the look in his eyes was angry and defiant Harry noted that his hands were shaking at his sides.

Lucius began to laugh uproariously, but when Draco did not respond in kind, he fixed Harry with a cruel leer. “Friend? Really Draco, am I to believe that this… _runt_ is your friend? Do you wish to make me laugh?” Again, Draco didn’t respond and simply looked on. Harry thought the boy might be holding back tears. “Okay, say he’s your friend...what is the boy’s name, again? I’d love it if my beloved son were to introduce me to his brand new _mate_ , hm?” 

Draco began to stammer, a panicked look in his eyes. He really regretted not getting the ragged boy’s name when they first met, even in the middle of the bustling street. “I- well, I, you see father—”

Lucius _tsked_ , a strong hand thrusting out to grab Draco by the shoulder, callous, forceful, and anything but fatherly. “Just as I thought. And I’m sure Madam will get the idea...if not, I’m sure your dear old friend could pass the message on for us, no?” he asked, finally meeting Harry’s eyes—and as he did, Harry’s blood ran cold.

“Y-yes, sir, of course,” he murmured, shifting his gaze to Draco’s trembling form, watching helplessly as the Malfoy patriarch’s wicked grip grew only tighter on Draco’s slowly crumpling posture. Grinning as if delighted by this, Lucius gave a firm nod.

“I’m pleased to hear so. Then, we’ll be off, Draco...I’m sure the two of you will meet again someday,” Lucius said, and without further ado, dragged Draco out of the store. Harry watched them, indignation boiling in his blood, and suddenly the Malfoy heir apparent turned his head to Harry. 

_”I’m sorry,”_ he mouthed before the two rounded the corner and disappeared into a sea of scurrying bodies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't repost this fic onto any other platform—screenshots of my fic uploaded onto instagram included. speaking of, you can find my editing account @pansmiones on instagram !
> 
> comments && kudos are sincerely appreciated, as are questions && critique.
> 
> things are finally rolling!!!!! this story is going to be written in vignettes until roughly when the timeline reaches book 5/book 6, so things will continue on from here in a similar manner. idk. i'm excited though!!
> 
> —also, when hagrid ran off he went to the owlery to pick up hedwig :")


End file.
